cold
by Emmel1118
Summary: He chooses the living. (but that doesn't stop the dead haunting him) - oneshot, James thinks about Vesper in the fallout from SPECTRE.


**_warning - contains SPECTRE SPOILERS_**

* * *

 _cold_

* * *

Franz is crumpled on the ground, his leg broken, his face slashed and scarred; he will not escape.

The gun feels natural in his hand, the trigger ready to be pulled. He looks down, and wonders.

Just because he did something once, doesn't mean he has to do it again.

He empties the gun, and walks away, hand in hand with a beautiful girl – no email this time, no resignation, just a look and mercy and a gun landing in the water.

…

He goes back, the next day, to see the destruction. He stands by the quivering police tape, views the damage with apathetic eyes.

He turns to leave, but a gust of wind whips the ground, and suddenly, floating through the air are the pictures of the dead.

He does not know where they come from – not does he care, but his eyes linger too long on the face of a woman he thought he would never see again.

He never had a photo of her. He always thought there were more important things to do, all the time in the world to take such simple things as photos. But he was wrong.

He walks away. He will never have a photo of her, and yet her face is burned to the back of his memory.

He leaves the photos of the dead behind with the rest of the wreckage, joining Madeline in a hotel in the centre of the city.

He chooses the living.

(but that doesn't stop the dead haunting him)

…

They go travelling.

Anywhere. Everywhere.

(but when she says 'Italy! Venice, oh James please!' he turns to her, his face set, and says 'no, not Venice, never there,' and that's that)

…

He leaves MI6. He walks away.

For a woman.

He cannot help but be reminded of a time, before, when he had this dream – that he would leave it all behind for the chance of a life with a woman.

Now it's the same dream, re-awakened, but a different girl, different love.

…

Instead of death, there are beautiful beaches.

Instead of killing, there are resorts.

Instead of pain and misery, there are dinners out and crisp suits and gorgeous dresses.

Instead of darkness, there is light.

…

For the few few days, weeks even - he expects it all to end. He expects nightmares to rear their ugly heads and snatch away yet another hope for the future.

But the nightmares don't come, will never come.

(she will not betray him, she will not end up dead, drowned in a Venetian canal in a red dress that haunts him even now)

…

Sometimes - sometimes, he catches himself looking at her, finding the features handed down to her from her father, and he is reminded of the past, and heartbreak so numbing it has taken him this long to feel again.

…

When that man – his old friend, now insane - said her name, said it like it meant nothing, he realised he never grieved.

With M, he grieved. People knew, people understood. There was a funeral, there was saying goodbye. There was grief, all-consuming black grief.

But before, there was nothing. No one knew, no one understood. There were no goodbyes. There was the crunch of boots on snow and answers, forgiveness even – but no grief.

But then, kneeling in the madman's complex being told this man is the author of all his pain, and her name burning his ears, the black grief swallows him.

…

He is happy with Madeline.

He loves her, differently maybe to how he loved before, but it is love all the same. He is more careful now; he has already been burned once, he would be a fool to let it happen again.

…

A beach, somewhere hot, somewhere exotic.

They are lying in the sand, enjoying the late sun glow, when she brings it up.

"That man - Oberhauser, Blofeld, whatever he called himself - he said something - about a woman."

He continues staring at the ground, at the golden sand and then Madeline is saying her name and he's so violently reminded of another beach, another beautiful girl, that his heart feels like it's being torn.

"Vesper?"

"She was no one." His words are crisp, verging on cold. But without the ice, his façade would tumble and crack.

Madeline rolls over, her eyes flaring with anger.

"Non," she says, shaking her head. "I want a real answer." He has noticed, over the past few weeks together, that she slips into her mother tongue when she is angry, or upset.

He shrugs. "She's dead."

"James-" Her voice is warning, angry, but he stays silent. She regards him for a long moment, the silence palpable.

Her eyes search his face, looking for an answer.

"As-tu amoureux elle?"

Her voice is quiet, not angry like he expects. He understands the weight of the question, understands from the vulnerability in her voice and the use of her native language.

He looks away, before standing. His feet crunch in the sand. He gets to the cover of trees and he looks back.

"Yes."

...

He wakes up one morning, somewhere tropical, with sweat coating him and a swear caught on his tongue.

He cannot remember the nightmare (he tells himself) Just a flicker of pain, damp walls – another madman's face – screams too. And, out of place, the glaring white of a VHS cover.

…

He wanted to take it. He can accept that at least. Maybe if Madeline hadn't been there, Madeline with her clever eyes and prying questions, he would have taken it. Watched it.

Or maybe not. He does tell her it's nothing after all.

…

They are in Switzerland, somewhere near the Italian border.

"Italy?" she asks. "Venice – the city of love." Her eyes roam his face, watching for a flicker, for anything.

"What about Rome?" he suggests.

"Why not Venice?" she counters, and he knows she is too clever for him – that she has worked out that the woman whose name he cannot say and the city he cannot bare to visit are connected.

"Did you go there with her?" She pauses, watching his face again. "With-"

He cuts her off before she can say it.

"No."

His voice is cold, his body is frozen, his eyes glare. There is a flash in her eyes – a look, one that he reads as 'I'm scared' and he relaxes his tense body, his defences crumbling.

"As-tu vas-y avec elle?" It is that same question as before, but she is speaking French now, a sure sign that she is either angry, or upset. "To Venice?" she adds.

They may have spent the last few months in each other's pockets, but it is clear she doesn't not know his secrets, the ones that left scars on his heart.

He nods, almost imperceptibly. "And I left and she never did," he says, knowing that it will answer none of her burning questions, but not having the will or energy to explain.

"Have you been back since…"

He doesn't say anything. They both know the answer.

They don't go to Venice.

…

She doesn't ask again.

For that, he is glad at least.


End file.
